Classic Poem

We publicans, sir, ever lived on the edge
Of other secrets. 'Tis our stock in trade,
To know what's doing in our neighbour's house,
And deal 't out with our liquor. Some few rogues
With sun-scorched cheeks come here, 'tis true, for nought
But to calm their stomachs with plain provender:
But choice Spirits love to mingle with their wine
Novelties,—scandal! Rather than be dumb,
They'll gossip of themselves. There's Justice Bolster
Discharges him of all his wealth of words
Here, sir,—in this poor room! There's not a case
Of note, but he's its master. From the thoughts
Of ministers, to actions at the assize,—
From a 'scaped murderer to a vagrant cat,
Nought can escape. Oh, sir, he is a jewel;
And doth absorb my beer like summer sand!